


Detangling the Past

by starrysummernights



Series: The Illusion of Control [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Biting, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Healing, M/M, Mating Bites, Omega John, Omega Verse, Sappy, Scent Marking, Scenting, You will get diabetes reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: Most Alpha/Omega couples celebrate the anniversary of the day they bonded.John’s parents had never done. John can’t remember his father ever so much as mentioning the bond he shared with John’s mother, or his happiness with it. Or even referencing the day on which it occurred. They just...never talked about it. John had never known when their bonding anniversary was. He still doesn’t.But Sherlock's parents had practiced beautiful bonding anniversaries. Every year.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Healing doesn’t mean the damage never existed. It means the damage no longer controls our lives.”

“Stay still.”

Sherlock wriggles on his back, trying to be good and do what John tells him. Trying to stay still. Trying to relax. It’s difficult, though, extremely so. Especially when one’s mate-

“Ohhh…” Sherlock thrusts up, reaching for John at the same time, but John’s hands are already there, pulling Sherlock’s away and placing them firmly back on the bed near his head. He presses them to the mattress with extra emphasis.

“Stay. Still.”

Sherlock does not whimper. He doesn’t. There is, however, a noise that escapes his mouth which sounds significantly _like_ a whimper. It isn’t, though. Not quite.

Not yet.

John shushes him, but he finally relents, taking pity on the writhing Alpha. He leans down and rubs their cheeks together, letting Sherlock’s morning stubble scratch against his face. His breath ghosts warm near Sherlock’s ear and Omega scent hits Sherlock full in the face. It’s perfect. He starts to reach for John...then remembers he’s not allowed. There’s the definitely-not-a-whine sound again as his hands clutch at the bedding near his head obediently. He can’t stop the needy thrust of his hips, begging for more.

John hums, and it’s all the permission Sherlock needs to do it again and again, rubbing his cock against his Omega's arse in shivery grinds. His Omega, who still smells sleep warm and musky and very bonded. _His_. The same Omega who is currently straddling his hips, legs splayed wide as he drives Sherlock slowly insane with his slow, methodical scenting. John’s pants are still on (disappointing) but his cock hard (wonderfully), and so when Sherlock thrusts, angling his hips just so, his cock rubs against John’s and _oh_. It’s marvelous.

It’s maddening.

Sherlock wants.

He _wants_.

John rests his entire body atop Sherlock’s. Warm. Skin against skin. His lips slide up the side of Sherlock’s neck. Up. Up. Up. Near his ear. Teasing. Sherlock’s breath catches as John, at long last, breathes him in, scenting him in the sweet (Sherlock would never say that to John) tentative (he won’t mention that either) way that John has developed. It’s noticeable and very obvious, yet hesitant all at the same time. John takes another inhale and Sherlock’s cock responds. Gives a hard throb. He shudders, hips pumping.

_Yes, John, please._

“Did I ever tell you that I like your scent?” John asks conversationally, as if Sherlock isn’t squirming beneath him, cock leaking a wet patch between them.

“N…” Sherlock’s throat closes up when John scents him again, this time near the bend of his neck. There’s a brief scrape of teeth. There and gone. Sherlock bites his lip to keep from begging out loud.

“I haven’t?” John teases, grinning, before he grinds atop Sherlock, sending sparks of pleasure skidding through his body. Sherlock moans his thanks, hips moving in restless thrusts.

John’s hands are at his sides. Up and down and up his chest. Over his ribcage. Roaming everywhere. Up his neck. Tangling in his hair. John’s cheek pressed against his. One side and then the other. Tongue traveling up the column of Sherlock’s neck to then tease at the shell of his ear. John’s thighs shift to either side of his hips as he angles himself this way and that to better scent his mate, toes digging into Sherlock’s leg. His small, perfect, gorgeous cock hard and pressing against Sherlock’s stomach. And, best of all, around him is John’s scent.

Omega. Happy. Content. Aroused.

It’s _everywhere_.

Every breath makes Sherlock want to cry with happiness.

It also makes him want to fuck John.

Hard. Very, very hard.

“I haven’t ever told you that I like your scent?”

Sherlock mutely shakes his head. No. John hasn’t told him. Not in so many words. He doesn’t mind that, though. Not really. If John would rather show him with a demonstration, Sherlock will be more than happy to let him.

“I do, you know. Love your scent.” John shuffles backward and Sherlock’s next thrust accidentally jams his cock into John’s stomach. Winded, John still manages to laugh at him as he stops him, hands on Sherlock’s hips. Holding him firmly to the bed.

His Omega. Holding him down. Scenting him.

_Please. Please, John. Please. Sherlock doesn't know how much more he can take. He loves being scented by John. It's his favorite thing, but incredibly rare. Preciously so. Having John like this..._

“Stay still.” John whispers and Sherlock tries. He does. He tries very hard because he wants nothing more than to lay in bed for as long as he can and let John scent all over him. He'll do anything John wants him to. He'll be as still as a statue even if it kills him...if that means he gets to keep John like this. He loves when John scents him. It’s everything Sherlock has ever wanted from their bond and this morning, he’s finally getting to have it.

It’s slow, wonderful torture.

Sherlock sighs, overwrought and unstable, as he fights for control. They have to do this carefully, the scenting. Sherlock knows that John, for all the progress he's made, remains uncomfortable with certain acts in their bond. Even those he likes just as much as Sherlock- such as scenting his mate. For this to work, for them to both get what they need, John has to be in control when he scents Sherlock. At all times. Able to give Sherlock what he knows the Alpha needs but at his own pace. On his own time. In his own way. Sherlock gladly surrenders. Anything.

Anything for John.

Anything for his Omega.

Always.

John rubs his face against Sherlock’s chest, fingers tickle at his ribs, and his tongue traces wet, teasing patterns over Sherlock’s stomach that leave him twitching. John doesn’t bite him. Plenty of time for that later, Sherlock thinks hopefully- but his teeth graze over Sherlock’s hips, on each side, which makes him arch, cock flexing. Again. And again.

By the time John reaches Sherlock’s cock, mouthing at it through the wet cloth of his pants, Sherlock is a wreck. Trembling with want, his control is in tattered shreds.

He wants.

_He wants._

He wants to grab John, pull him down on the bed, and thrust against him until they both come. He wants to position John over his cock and fuck up into him, rough and fast. Or let John ride his cock, in the slow and steady and maddening way John likes, until Sherlock almost cries with how much he needs to come- and John laughs at him before fucking them both over the edge. He wants John to straddle his chest, fuck his mouth as if he's trying to make Sherlock choke on his cock, then spool ejaculate straight down his throat. He wants John’s mouth on his cock, tight and wet, unable to take him all the way down but doing such a fantastic job Sherlock doesn't even notice. John's hand, too much friction and rough enough to be painful but which always makes Sherlock come- or…or...

Sherlock’s thoughts derail as John, without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ peels off Sherlock’s pants, jerking them down his legs before tossing them to the side. Sherlock’s cock curves over his stomach but John ignores it, instead burying his face in the juncture between Sherlock’s groin and thigh, where his scent is most concentrated. Sherlock, coquettish, unable to help himself really, spreads his legs further apart.

He _feels_ John smirk against his skin.

"Tart."

“For you…” Sherlock whispers back. It's the right thing to say, earning him John's tongue on his testicles, tracing over them delicately as they retract, drawing up close to Sherlock's body. He stops just short of Sherlock's weeping erection, giving him a broad smile as it pulses hopefully. "Oh..."

If John hadn’t told him not to, Sherlock would be touching himself. Frantically. It’s all too much. It’s too much. John so rarely scents him that he isn’t acclimatized to it. He doesn’t think he ever will be. He could come, untouched, from John scenting him and nothing else. And Sherlock has, almost every time they’ve done this. John's never seemed to mind before. Seemed smug about it actually, breathlessly cursing each time Sherlock did it, his own orgasm not far behind. But he'd asked Sherlock not to this morning. He wants Sherlock to wait.

John, Sherlock realizes with a shivery thrill, has a _plan_.

For John, Sherlock will endure. He'll wait as long as John wants him to.

But when John gives him a wicked look as he lowers his head and scents Sherlock’s cock, running his nose up the entire length of it, Sherlock sobs. He can't help himself. His cock jerks, testicles tight against his body, and it’s a very near thing.

* * *

 

“Do you know what today is?”

John loves the way Sherlock looks: spread out and taken apart, sweat and shaking and entirely undone. All because of John. Because of what John is doing to him. It’s incredibly gratifying the way Sherlock responds to him- always- but especially in this. To know that he has the ability to drive Sherlock out of his mind and be unable to control himself, that he has this much control over the Alpha, just by scenting him, is…

Well. It’s probably very not good.

It doesn’t stop John from feeling that way, though.

But John will admit that it’s more than just seeing Sherlock so affected because of his scenting. He could have that any time. No, it's much more than that. John stares at Sherlock’s hands, long fingers twisted in the bedsheets near his head, knuckles white with the strain and effort of holding himself back, his cock red and arching over his stomach, neglected...because John told him that he’s not allowed to touch. Not yet.

And Sherlock won’t. He wants to. That much is obvious. He won’t touch until John allows him to, though. Sherlock’s doing his best to give John anything he needs, just like he always does. Like he’s done since the very beginning. Anything John needs, all he has to do is ask and Sherlock will more than willingly go along.

John doesn’t think he deserves it, but he will never get tired of seeing the depths of Sherlock’s love for him. How, with just a few words, Sherlock will gladly cede him any power and control he wants, trusting John with an implicit reverence John _knows_ he doesn't deserve.

“I love you.” He rubs Sherlock’s thighs. He can feel the jittery jump of muscles as Sherlock controls himself. For John. All for John. Always.

It’s time John gave something back.

Sherlock’s chest rises and falls rapidly as he pants for breath, not opening his eyes to look at JOhn. He clearly doesn't trust what would happen if he did. “I love...you…”

“I know you do.” John smiles. “That’s why...do you know what today is?”

It’s a moot question. John knows that he's already aware of the significance of today’s date.

Most Alpha/Omega couples celebrate the anniversary of the day they bonded.

John’s parents had never done. John can’t remember his father ever so much as mentioning the bond he shared with John’s mother, or his happiness with it. Or even referencing the day on which it occurred. They just...never talked about it. John had never known when their bonding anniversary was. He still doesn’t.

There hadn’t been celebrations or parties. No little special presents, or intimate dinners or smiles, or cards, or...anything. The day passed every year, cycling through the calendar, without remark, with nothing done to demarcate it as remarkable. It wasn’t until John was in primary school that he learned the importance of a couple’s bonding anniversary, and that Alpha/Omega couples were expected to celebrate it. That it was bizarre if they _didn’t_ and meant something was _wrong_ in the bond.

By that point, when it came to his parents, John had already worked that out for himself.

But Sherlock’s parents had practised beautiful bonding anniversaries. Every year, without fail.

Mrs. Holmes had told John so a few weeks ago, when she came to visit Addi while Sherlock was out...

* * *

 

“He’s such a darling.” Mrs. Holmes said as she cuddled Addi to her chest, scenting the top of his head and kissing his cheek, chuckling indulgently when he fussed to be put down and allowed to play with his toys again. She sat him on the floor, fond as she watched the chubby baby crawl away. “He’s a wonderful little boy.”

John, handing her a cup of tea, couldn’t disagree with her. He thought Addi was pretty great too. Amazing. Extraordinary, actually. But that was something John only told Addi, cuddling his little boy close and whispering it in his ear when they were alone. To John, the sentiment felt special. It wasn’t for just everybody’s ears.

John half-listened, one eye on Addi, as Mrs. Holmes updated him on all the health complaints of herself and her husband since the last time she’d seen him. He winced as she prattled on about her hot flashes which hadn't been helped by the replacement hormones the doctors had her on. That led to her lamenting the loss of her estrus and chuckling over Mr. Holmes’ distraught reaction to the event, elbowing John good-naturedly and with too much cheek. Some of the things she revealed were very personal, uncomfortably so. It had taken John a while to work out exactly _why_ Mrs.Holmes thought he wanted to know all those things. When he had, John was charmed. And annoyed. Since John was a doctor, Mrs. Holmes apparently thought he would be interested to hear all the medical complaints of both herself and her husband, as well as all of their friends. It was annoying...but rather sweet that the mother of his mate was trying so hard to get along with him.

John still wishes she'd keep the fact that it had been over ten years since her last heat to herself. Including that she missed "that special Alpha touch" and hoping the new hormones triggered at least one heat in the next year. He grit his teeth, making the requisite noises, and tried to block out exactly what she was saying.

“Oh! I almost forgot to mention- I’ll be happy to take Addison this year for your and Sherlock’s bonding anniversary. I know it’s coming up soon and I’m sure you and Sherlock were fussed, wondering who could take care of him, what with Martha gone to visit her sister this month. I’ll be more than happy to watch him. It’s really no trouble. More than happy, I promise you. I’d love to spend the whole weekend with my only grandchild and not have to be rushing out here and there. I never thought I’d have one, you know, a grandchild. Especially not from Sherlock, and it’s been such a pleasant surprise…”

“Oh. Well, that’s…” John, thrown, hadn’t known what to say. For starters, he didn’t know how Mrs. Holmes knew the date of his and Sherlock’s bonding but also...He and Sherlock had never....they didn’t...

Mrs. Holmes threw John a wink which he thought was much too cheeky for so early a Wednesday morning. “Sherlock’s always been so very sweet, tender hearted -even when he was a little boy. He tries to hide it, of course, but you and I, we know better, don’t we? He was so pleased when the two of you were bonded. Over the moon, when he called and told Daddy and me. It was quite the shock, I must say, but we were happy for him. I was always worried- for both my boys, of course- but Sherlock seemed to struggle the most, and he was always alone…” Mrs. Holmes shook herself out of that line of thought, hitching a bright smile on her face again. “Not anymore though." She declared, patting John's knee. "He’s got you now. And Addi. Such a happy little family. Just like I knew he deserved. I’m sure you and Sherlock have lovely bonding anniversaries.”

John felt extremely awkward, and, for some reason, caught out. As if he were a boy who had done something disgusting and rude. He knew it was because of him that...

“Well. We...uh. Sherlock and I. We sort of...never have done.”

“Never done what?” To Mrs. Holmes it simply wasn’t possible for a couple to not celebrate their bonding anniversary. She waited for John to explain, face open and happy. It was clear she didn’t understand what John meant and wouldn’t expect the next words out of his mouth. She thought he and Sherlock had incredibly romantic, beautiful anniversaries. Like she thought Sherlock wanted and deserved. John hated to be the one to disillusion her.

And disappoint her. It felt like he was disappointing her to say...

“I mean. Well. Sherlock and I don’t celebrate our bonding anniversary. We...never have.”

The smile slowly slipped from Mrs. Holmes’ face and she blinked in surprise. “You...you haven’t?”

“Um. No.” John tried to keep his voice light. This was fine. It was their decision. There was nothing to be ashamed about. “We don’t.”

“You mean…” Mrs. Holmes grappled with this information, frowning. “You mean Sherlock has never celebrated your bonding anniversary?”

“No, but-”

“But...but what do you _do_ on your anniversary?”

John shrugged. “Nothing. We treat it like any other day, but-”

Mrs. Holmes swelled with indignation, eyes flashing with anger, and John suddenly understood why both her adult sons were rather terrified of her, and hopelessly cowed. “I can’t believe Sherlock would...would...I know I raised him better than to disregard such an important event! To...to treat his Omega in such a shocking manner and neglect...It’s…it's...” Mrs. Holmes was so outraged that words utterly failed her, and John took advantage of her momentary pause to explain, guilt eating like acid at his insides.

“It’s not Sherlock who didn’t...I just. It was because of me. I guess. I mean, we’ve never really discussed it, he and I, and I wasn’t...my parents never celebrated their bonding anniversary. Ever. So I just assumed…” John shrugged again, helplessly spreading his hands. “It isn’t a big deal.” He finished, and it really wasn't. He didn't feel deprived. It was just another day, wasn't it?

Mrs. Holmes shook her head. “You may not have understood, John. I know about your parents- awful person, your father- and that's why I don’t blame you. But Sherlock knows better. He should have shown you how important it is to celebrate the day the two of you became a bonded pair.”

John’s heart twisted with remorse. He was sure Sherlock _would_ have shown him how important their bonding anniversary was...if John had let him. Because John knew the only reason he and Sherlock didn’t celebrate was because he, John, hadn’t wanted to. Sherlock always waited for John’s cues as to what he should do in most social situations, especially in their relationship, and during that first year after they bonded, as the date approached, John had done nothing to help him along or offer encouragement. Nothing to let him know that they should reference the day at all. Sherlock would have known how John felt about “Omega things” as Mrs. Hudson put it, and so he had taken the situation as read.

There had been no celebration. Not a word breathed about the date.

John hadn’t minded.

Now, he wondered how Sherlock had felt. Had he wanted to celebrate? Had he been disappointed that he couldn't? Had John deprived him of that happiness too, just as he'd done with everything else in their bond?

The second year, Addison had been born, and they were both so busy and tired that the day came and went without any fanfare. John hadn't even realized it had passed until he glanced at the calendar, bleary eyed and dead tired, swaying on his feet. Oh, he'd thought. Two years. Good...that's....good.

Now, the third year of their bonding, John had assumed they'd continue on as they had been. There was no reason to change things.

Then Mrs. Holmes told John about the bonding anniversaries she and her husband had shared. How lovely and special they’d made the day. How, once Sherlock and Mycroft were old enough, they included their sons in the celebration because their bond had produced their children and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes wanted their sons to be a part of it. A part of what Mrs. Holmes termed, “a celebration of their love.”

“And that’s what we did,” Mrs. Holmes said fondly, patting John’s knee again, unaware that every word out of her mouth was only increasing John’s unease. “Every year. We...well I suppose we treated it like a holiday. We kept the boys home from school and we all had our favorite foods cooked. Then, we spent the day playing games, reading, and spending time together. Having so much fun. By the end of the night, we’d all be so tired, in a big pile on the sofa, Sherlock and Mycroft getting along for the most part, just scenting. Relaxing. Renewing our family bond. It was so lovely. And we did that every year until, well...until…” Mrs. Holmes trailed off, but John could guess what she meant: until Mycroft self-destructed, depressed over the inability to stop his heats, and almost tore the family apart, selling his heats for drugs. After he’d been sent to rehab, he started taking suppressants which, among other side effects, negated his scent. There could have been no more scenting with his family. So that meant…

When John picked Addi up to feed him lunch, the baby still smelled like Sherlock. The Alpha had scented him before leaving for Bart’s and John nuzzled at the top of his head. Sherlock’s scent clung to Addi, and he thought of how naturally Sherlock scented their child. Every day. Morning and night and whenever he had the opportunity in-between. The easy way he loved Addi. Comfortable and demonstrative.

And then he thought about the gentle way Sherlock loved John himself. Undemanding. Kind. Patient.

The patience of a fucking saint, actually. Never asking for himself. Always wanting to make John happy.

Sherlock had good memories of bonding anniversaries.

The more John thought of it, watching Mrs. Holmes coo at Addi he smeared mashed beans on his face, John was almost positive that Sherlock wanted to celebrate their bonding anniversary. It seemed like a very...Sherlock thing to do.

It made John feel awkward to think of celebrating, though, like being a child and having to sit at the head of the table and have a roomful of people sing happy birthday to him. Put on the spot. Too much attention. Gawky because he really didn’t know how to act. He’d never done this before, or seen it done, and he honestly didn’t have a fucking clue as to where to start.

A bonding anniversary was different for every couple, based on their personal preferences, but for the life of him, John didn’t know what he could do. He opened as many websites as he could which offered romantic advice for Omegas wanting to please their Alphas on their anniversaries. Most were utter rubbish. Maudlin. Cheesy. Others made John clench his teeth, the old anger stirring, and he clicked off those websites with more force than necessary.

It was useless.

John deleted his browser history so Sherlock wouldn’t know what he’d been doing (he could be tech savvy when he needed to be) and thought long and hard about what he could do. What would be nice?

What wouldn’t be sappy or corny?

What wouldn’t make John want to cringe from the very thought?

_What would Sherlock want?_

John smirked, but in a purely fond way. Put like that, keeping what Sherlock would want firmly in mind, it was easy.

John knew what he could do.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you know what today is?”

Sherlock’s eyes slide open. Wary. Not trusting his first thought which he knows probably isn’t what John is referring to. “Today?”

“Yeah. Today.” John smiles in encouragement. “Do you? Remember?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but he shyly brushes his fingers over John’s neck, across his bond bite. The simple caress sends tingles racing down John’s spine.

Of course Sherlock remembers.

John gives him a lopsided smile, chest a little tight. God, he loves this man.

“Yeah. It’s...well. I thought since we haven’t done, that we could maybe celebrate today. A bit.”

John expected Sherlock to light up, eager and excited, at the prospect of finally celebrating their bond. He was prepared for smiles and kisses and laughing as Sherlock bounced from one idea to the next as to what they could do before John revealed his plan to him. The last thing he expected was for the Alpha to remain silent, staring at John with unfathomable eyes. John realizes, with a sudden beat of horror, that maybe he’s read this whole situation wrong.

Because it’s not just been _John_ who has shown reticence. Has it? Sherlock himself had never given any indication that he wanted to celebrate their bond. Ever. John had thought that was all down to him, Sherlock not wanting to upset John with something he thought he wouldn’t want...but what if that wasn’t the reason at all? What if Sherlock really hadn’t wanted to celebrate? It would make sense. John knows he’s given Sherlock fucking little to celebrate in their bond. They’ve not had it easy, the two of them, John thinks, guilt lancing through him. He’s continually hurt their bond, hurt Sherlock, over and over, by his carelessness and inability to...

Would having a day dedicated to their bond just serve to remind Sherlock of what a failure of an Omega John was? And still is? Would it remind Sherlock that, for all the progress John has made, he’s still not entirely what Sherlock secretly wants? That there are things John still can't- won't- do, the very things that he knows Sherlock craves?

John, self-conscious as Sherlock continues to stare at him, not saying a word, backpedals wildly, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. “I...I mean. We don’t have to. Obviously. If you don’t want. I just thought...but we never have done before, and we can keep doing that. Or _not_ doing, as it were. If that’s what you want. I thought...but I mean, I guess it’s not a big deal. It's just another day-”

“It was the most important day of my life, John.” Sherlock softly contradicts, fingers as delicate as butterfly wings against John’s bond bite, stroking gently, and John doesn’t know what to say. The utter conviction behind Sherlock’s words is...humbling. It not only dispels the panic, but leaves John reeling just a bit because he knows that Sherlock means every word. Sincerely.

Out of everything else, bonding with John had been the most important day of Sherlock’s life.

For the life of him, John can’t understand why.

“Sherlock...I…” John’s eyes sting. He presses his hand over Sherlock’s, their hands covering John’s bond bite while his mouth twists, face hot as emotions well up-

“I was afraid I’d kill you.”

The crystalline moment shatters. Whatever John had expected Sherlock to say next, it hadn’t been that. He bursts into surprised laughter.

“ _What_?”

Some of Sherlock’s relaxed languor from the scenting vanishes as pink tinges his cheeks. “It wasn’t such a far-fetched outcome, John." He snaps. "Bonding bites go wrong all the time. An Alpha rushes the process, doesn’t think clearly, makes a costly mistake, and the results prove fatal to the Omega-”

“Yeah, but _rarely_ -”

“Rarely does not mean never. Rarely only means that it’s not _likely_ to happen. It doesn’t mean that it _won’t_. The night you asked me to bond with you, I began researching the process and I gathered as much information as I could so I would be adequately prepared for our bonding. But no amount of reading or instruction made me feel prepared enough. I was still worried that I would get it wrong somehow and kill you. Or maim you in some terrible way and damage your scent glands. Or I could not bite deep enough- exert the wrong amount of pressure- fail to bond us, and just cause you unnecessary pain...or exert too much pressure, bite too deep and…” Sherlock’s fingers move against John’s neck, tracing the faded white scar. John shivers. “The instructional videos made for Alphas were complete rubbish, but the videos I watched of supposed ‘real bondings’ were...sickening. The Omegas seemed in agony. They were in pain. Crying. And there was always so much blood. Their bond bite was more of a wound than a bonding mark…I didn’t want that for us. For you.”

It should be silly, what Sherlock's saying. Millions of Alphas bond with Omegas every day and nothing goes wrong. It's an easy, natural process (for the Alpha that is). The idea of Sherlock killing him from the bond, or horribly messing it up, is ludicrous. But...

John is strongly reminded of his own fears before he and Sherlock bonded, the fears he had carried with him since he was a child. Suddenly, saying he’d been worried that he would kill John isn't such a silly thing for Sherlock to have said.

John climbs back up Sherlock’s body and kisses him. Sherlock's reluctant and slow to respond. He's still smarting from John’s laughter and he wants to be indignant, but he can never hold out long. When John continues kissing him, slipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, he softens, hands coming up to trace over John’s hips and breath sighing out so he can greedily inhale John’s scent again.

“I was scared about bonding, too.” John admits against his lips. “Did you know?”

“...somewhat.”

John chuckles ruefully, shaking his head. “It wasn’t just somewhat. I was _terrified_ , Sherlock.” He feels Sherlock tense in distress and John rushes to explain before Sherlock can blame himself or feel bad. “It’s like you said- I thought getting bonded would be painful. Horrible. Literally the worst thing I’d ever go through as an Omega- because that was what I’d always been told. I’d been told that there would be pain and blood and savagery. That...that I’d scream because it hurt so much. I was told that since I was little. You understand?”

John knows that Sherlock does. The Alpha has gone utterly still beneath him, listening to every word.

“But I was ready to grit my teeth and soldier through, get bonded anyway even if it was excruciating...because if I did...that meant I got you. You would be _mine_. My Alpha. Seemed like a good trade-off. What was a little pain compared to that? A few moments pain, a bit of blood, and I’d get you as mine for the rest of our lives.”

Sherlock’s eyes light up at the possessive confession and John laughs at his ridiculous Alpha. He can’t help but kiss him again and it’s heady the way Sherlock responds to him, pliant, parting his lips so John can deepen their kiss, tongue sweeping against his own, moaning as he does it. John loves him so much- but he pulls back, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s, keeping his eyes closed for his next confession.

He’s thought of what he will say to Sherlock extensively. How exactly he wants to say it and the words he wants to use when he does. John isn’t good with these sorts of things- Omega things, yes- but also emotions in general. Feelings and discussing them.

But...

_“I never wanted this! I never fucking wanted to be an Omega and I never wanted to be bloody bonded and then...and then goddamn pregnant!” John shouted. He was so angry he was shaking with it. Breeding. That was what she’d said. That he and Sherlock were breeding like he was...like he was..._

_Sherlock stared at John from across the room, eyes wide. Vulnerable. His voice was odd as he responded, lips barely moving. “It was your idea for us to bond.”_

_John spoke before he even thought about it, all the pain and rage surging to the fore and overtaking him. “I wish I hadn’t.”_

_I wish I hadn’t._

_I wish I hadn’t._

_I wish I hadn’t._

It was the worst thing John could have said to Sherlock. The worst thing anyone could say to their mate. John had regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but he couldn't take them back. And the hurt and betrayal on Sherlock’s face when John broke his heart would stay with him the rest of his life. John knew it would. The ugly, unforgivably cruel way he had hurt his mate, the man John loved more than anyone else in the world, the person who had given John so much- and keeps giving and giving and giving- and never takes anything for himself unless he knows for sure it’s what John wants too…

John sighs, face crumpling. More than a year later, what he said to Sherlock still haunts John. He thinks it haunts Sherlock too. Not in an obvious way, but from time to time, John detects a hesitancy in Sherlock’s touch. As if he doesn't think he's allowed to be near John, allowed to need him. And then there's the agonizingly relieved way he sometimes acts when John reaches for him first, sinking gratefully into John's arms, breath sighing out in noticeable relief...

John kisses Sherlock softly, readying himself. Sherlock’s hands skim upward, along John’s back, wanting him closer. John is more than fucking willing.

“I wanted you to be mine, Sherlock. I wanted you. So. Fucking. Much.” John catches Sherlock’s hand, placing his fingers over his bond bite again. Sherlock inhales sharply but doesn't pull away. “I was ready to suffer, to go through hell and back, if that meant I got to keep you. And then it happened...we bonded…And you know what? Do you know how it felt?”

Sherlock shakes his head, curls tickling against John’s face. He may have already guessed from observing John during the times he’s been allowed to bite him, but he wants John to tell him. He wants to hear it from John.

“You bit me and it was the _best_...feeling...in the world. There wasn’t pain- I mean, there was a little but it wasn’t anything like...And there wasn’t violence. It was just you- you, Sherlock- binding me to you for the rest of our lives. I thought I could come. Just from that. Not even from your knot. It was...I _loved_ it, Sherlock. I _loved_ the way it felt when you bit me-”

Sherlock makes a desperate noise and raises up, surging against John, needy hands cupping at his face as he kisses him feverishly. John groans and thinks of leaving it there. He’s said enough. That’s good. He’s told Sherlock how he felt and now he can-

No.

Sherlock moans in frustration when John detaches his hands from his face, but John gives him a smile to soothe the sting. He hesitates, staring at Sherlock from inches away...then decides that nope. He’s not brave enough to say this next bit to Sherlock’s face. He thought he was. Turns out he’s not.

He’s still going to fucking say it though, John thinks fiercely.

John leans forward- Sherlock’s arms immediately wrapping around him- and whispers in his ear. “I have loved every single day of being bonded to you, Sherlock. Every single fucking moment. I’ve been a mess and frankly, I don’t know why the hell you still want me. Why you’ve put up with me. Why you’ve...you’ve done all that you have for me. I’ve hurt you. A lot. I know I have. And I really don’t deserve….well. Fucking anything really. But…I have always, from the bottom of my heart, loved- _absolutely loved_ \- being yours.”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is uneven, distressed, and John's heart breaks. Sherlock should have already known this. The fact that he didn't says something about John. Something very not good. He pets at Sherlock's hair, encouraging him to bury his face in John’s neck to scent him, knowing it will make Sherlock feel better. He’s shaking against John, breath hitching, and John holds on, closing his eyes, knowing deep in his bones this was the best decision he’s ever made in his entire goddamn life.

“Do you know why I don’t let you bite me a lot?" He asks quietly, swallowing around a sudden flash of nerves. "Why I won’t let you renew my bond bite?”

Sherlock pauses, but then shakes his head. He thinks he knows.

John smirks. He really doesn’t.

“I was afraid once I started letting you...that I’d never stop wanting it.”

Sherlock freezes against him. John can’t even feel him breathing anymore. He honest-to-god thinks Sherlock is holding his breath, waiting for what John will say next.

“It...it was addicting, the way I felt when you bit me. I mean, it felt fucking amazing, but...I also felt...I don’t know. Perfect. Completed?” John snorts, rolling his eyes. “All the stupid things they tell Omegas they’ll feel on those damn websites when their Alpha bites them. Sounds stupid when I say it...but. I was afraid that if I let you do it too much, bite me, that I’d always crave it. And do you know what?”

Sherlock shakes his head again, absolutely hypnotised. John has never felt more powerful in all his life.

Or scared.

The sacrifice of telling Sherlock all of this is monumental. It’s taken John years and lots of therapy to get to this moment. To be able to speak in truths not couched behind uneasiness that always cuts him to his very core, leaving him gutted afterwards and feeling like a failure.

Feeling _less_.

He’s doing this, though. Sherlock deserves to know.

Fuck all of that other shit.

John nervously wets his lips. “I was still addicted, Sherlock.” Sherlock tenses against him, but John isn’t done yet. “I still craved it. It scared the shit out of me. Always felt so ashamed about it, but I craved it. I wanted you to bite me. All the time. Every day.”

Sherlock abruptly pushes at him- John stiffens, panicked, thinking he’s actually, somehow, horribly being rejected- before Sherlock grabs John’s head, one hand cupped protectively over his bond bite, and roughly seals their lips together. Surprising John. Making his heart flutter with pure relief.

“Sherlock-” John breaks off, hissing, as Sherlock nips at his bottom lip before sucking on it, his tongue doing nicely wicked things.

Sherlock’s arms wind even tighter around him, making it hard to breathe. Not that John cares. Sherlock’s kiss turns desperate. He’s breathing too hard, holding John a little too tight as he presses forward, tipping him backwards, kissing him with more purpose. John wants to end it right there. He and Sherlock are both hard. It would be so easy to let Sherlock press him down on the bed, as he’s currently doing, John winding his legs around Sherlock’s hips, hands on his arse, encouraging Sherlock to thrust against him. Let Sherlock fuck him. Make them both come. John would love that.

But he has a plan.

It kills him, literally kills something inside John, to pull away from Sherlock again. For a moment, he thinks that Sherlock won’t let him. His arms cage John in on either side like steel, hips pumping and lips still insistent against John’s own. John thinks that Sherlock’s monumental control has finally snapped and he honestly wouldn’t blame him after the morning they’ve had and the things he’s told him...but then Sherlock’s arms loosen. He breaks their kiss, sagging against John with a heartfelt moan, hips stuttering to a stop, literally trembling with the denial.

“John... _please_ …”

“It’s all right.” John smoothes Sherlock’s hair back from his face, hands shaking almost as much as Sherlock’s. His cock is throbbing and, when he shifts beneath Sherlock, he feels an answering wetness slicking against his hole that makes him shudder. “It’s only...I have a present for you.”

“But I didn’t get you anything.”

“You will.” John winks, and oh. To see Sherlock’s eyes dilate even further, until he looks almost blind, lips parting on another moan. He thrusts, helplessly grinding his cock against John.

“Yes…”

“You’re...you’re not to come until I say.” John reminds him quickly. “Okay? I’m not trying to be...This isn’t...It's not...It’s just that you’ll ruin what I have planned if you do. If you come before then...All right? I want you to come, obviously...but just. Not yet.”

Sherlock nods, agreeing, but he doesn’t understand. He hasn’t guessed. He never could have. He still agrees, though, because he trusts John. John marvels, wondering how he ever got so lucky.

“I want you to make me come-”

Sherlock moves to the side, eagerly reaching for John’s cock. “How-”

“While you renew my bond bite.”

It’s not an odd request in most Alpha/Omega relationships. In John and Sherlock’s however, it's a rare event. John can count the number of times he's let Sherlock do this on one hand...and still have fingers left over.

Sherlock frowns, eyes flicking between each of John’s own. Searching. He doubts what John says he wants. Even after everything John has just told him.

“Why?”

John expected Sherlock to jump at the chance. He’s wrong-footed at having to explain to why. John really thinks he’s already done that. “What do you mean?”

“Why...why do you want me to?”

John’s eyes narrow, staring up at Sherlock, wondering what he…

Oh.

With a burst of pride, John thinks he understands. Sherlock’s not the only one who can deduce in this damn relationship.

“I thought you’d want to.” John says, then gives Sherlock a bashful look because admitting this next part, out loud, is still new enough to be uncomfortable. He knows that Sherlock wants to hear it again, though. “And because...I want it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we'll get to the actual sex tomorrow. I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

The best position is on their knees, upright, with John bracing himself against the wall and his body held in Sherlock’s arms. The position gives Sherlock perfect access to his bond bite, the right angle to perfectly cover it. They're pressed close together and Sherlock’s breath gusts against John’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. It raises the hairs on John's arms. Sherlock’s body feels warm against him. Solid. Reassuring.

John tries to relax into it, but it’s hard. Worry settles in the pit of his stomach, layer upon later. A gut-clenching, sick fear of the unknown.

They’ve never done this- renewed John’s bond bite- when they weren’t actively having sex. Then, everything is _more_. Senses heightened. Intense excitement. Pleasure sharper. Need which feels like a physical weight. Skin prickling from being so close to his Alpha, used and pleasured and knowing, instinctively- even if it makes him uncomfortable- that's he's _owned_. Endorphins flooding John’s system because of his Alpha, released in sympathetic reaction to his arousal to mute any pain he might feel from the bite. His body produces the right mix of chemicals which do what they’re supposed to: make the ordeal easier for the Omega.

Briefly, anyway.

John’s aroused now. Of course he is. He always wants Sherlock, but it’s a far cry from how he feels when Sherlock fucks him. He's still...normal. Disconcertingly unaffected. John doesn't think he's ready for this.

But he doesn’t want to have sex with Sherlock this morning, even if it would make things easier. John has a plan. He’s thought about this for weeks and he doesn’t want everything ruined just because he’s a little nervous-

John gasps, fear narrowing his vision as he instinctively tries to jerk away at the feel of an unexpected touch to his bond bite. Sherlock freezes behind him, suddenly tense. Not wanting to scare John further and John closes his eyes, sighing and calling himself ten different kinds of an idiot. Sherlock had been kissing him. Nothing else. Just a kiss, John tells that to his racing heart. But the touch, warm lips and hot breath against his skin, had been so unexpected that he'd thought...

Fuck.

John knows Sherlock would never force a bite on him. He never has. It was just...after his anxiety about not being ready...and then to suddenly feel Sherlock's mouth on his skin...

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock murmurs apologetically, but John shakes his head, angry at himself. He's ruining this for Sherlock. It's not...this is supposed to be fun.

“No. It’s not you...I’m sorry. Fuck. It’s me. I just…” John knows he’s being ridiculous. Acting like an Omega virgin during their first heat. He needs to trust Sherlock. He needs to trust his Alpha. Sherlock has never hurt John before and he won’t now.

And even if Sherlock _does_ hurt him, it won’t be on purpose. It’ll be accidental and in all likelihood the bite will probably still feel really fucking good anyway. Even if it _doesn’t_ feel good, even if it’s painful as fuck the whole time, John will still have given Sherlock something nice for their bonding anniversary. John knows that Sherlock will love every second of biting him and he’ll preen every time he sees John’s new bond bite, pressing kisses against it whenever he's allowed, and giving John looks as if John himself has done something extraordinary.

John can do this. He _wants_ to give this to Sherlock. He knows how much Sherlock wants it.

John wants it too. He does. It’s just...

He growls, huffing as he pushes down his fears as best he can, trying to relax in Sherlock's arms. At the moment, it feels impossible.

* * *

 

Pressed as close as they are, it's hard not to notice the tension vibrating through John's body, a minute trembling setting up in his limbs as he breathes, but even without the physical cues, Sherlock knows John is upset. He's John's Alpha, attuned to every subtle change in his mate, and it would be obvious to no one else except Sherlock... that John's scent has changed. Sour tendrils of worry and fear bleed through his usually lovely scent. Sherlock hates that. It stings his nose and compels him to do something. Do something. Fix the problem. Comfort John. Help his Omega. He doesn’t want John scared, ever, of something he's about to do to him.

Sherlock runs his hands across John’s chest and up his sides, offering comfort and John releases a shaky breath, ribs expanding beneath his palms, but the tension remains. Sherlock wants to kiss John’s bond bite again. He knows it will make John feel better, evoking a primal reaction in the Omega ...but he knows better than to try again. He hadn’t meant to scare John earlier, and the fact that he had is very upsetting. Painful. Sherlock never wants John scared. Especially not of him.

He compromises and leans forward, kissing John’s cheek.

“I love you.” He has to say it, vocally affirm his love for John. Sherlock hates that he scared him. He can't stand it. The idea is like ants marching beneath his skin and he wants to scrape and claw until the feeling is gone.

“Love you.”

“Relax?” Please?

“I am relaxed.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“ _John_.” Sherlock wishes John wouldn’t treat him like he’s a moron. He knows when he's upset. John can’t hide it from him. It’s foolish to think that he can.

“Okay. All right. I am a little wound up.” John admits reluctantly. “But it’s not...er, I don’t want you to think it’s because…”

Emotions war in Sherlock’s chest while John dithers, but it’s a brief struggle. He already knew which side would win. Which side always wins when it comes to John.

“We don’t have to do this, John. Any of it. It'll be alright if we don’t. And you don’t have to worry or think that I'll be angry or disappointed.” The last is a small lie. If they don't get to do this, there will be a twinge of disappointment. Because Sherlock does want this. Very, very badly. He does not, however, want it at the expense of John’s comfort or peace of mind. “You don’t have to force yourself to do something you don’t want. I'd never-”

“But I want to.” John clings to Sherlock’s arms where they're wrapped around his chest, as if he's afraid Sherlock will try and leave. “I do. I want to. I just...we’ve not done it. This way. Before.”

“Mm.” That is true. It rationalizes some of John’s fear, but Sherlock thinks John's more ready than he realizes. His scenting of Sherlock earlier already released the natural flood of hormones which he would otherwise get during sexual intercourse. And, when Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s cock, he’s still hard. Nicely aroused. His cock is warm and flexes in Sherlock’s palm. This will take care of the rest.

At the touch, John moans and leans his head back until it rests on Sherlock’s shoulder, tipping it slightly to the side, baring his bond bite. Sherlock takes the silent offering, running his nose along the exposed skin in a brief scenting. He feels some of the tension in John’s frame loosen and Sherlock purrs happily, doing it again.

He needs to give his Omega solace. The drive to soothe John is strong and Sherlock can’t fight against it. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t even try. He wants to help John. Whatever he needs.

He scents John again and he sighs, eyes fluttering closed, as Sherlock begins stroking his cock. He deliberately stays slow and methodical, teasing John’s cock by letting the pleasure build, little by little. There’s no rush, but as the leisurely pace continues, Sherlock sees John’s brow furrow. Confusion. Frustration. John wants it faster. He thinks he _needs_ it faster. Rougher. It’s how they’ve always done when Sherlock bites him so that’s really all John knows. He thinks that's what it will take.

John pushes into Sherlock’s hand, fucking his fist, trying to speed things up. Sherlock deliberately loosens his grip until his palm barely grazes John’s cock and John’s eyes fly open in alarm, hips jumping at the unexpected loss.

“Sherlock-!”

“Let me.” Sherlock gives in and kisses John’s bond bite which this time, instead of scaring him, only provokes pleasure. It's incredibly arousing the way John shudders, breath sighing out in an unsteady moan, and his cock gives a noticeable throb. Sherlock smiles, happy. “Just let me, John. Please?”

John’s throat works, his cock throbbing gently in Sherlock’s hand, while he debates with himself. Sherlock gives him time to think. If John says no, Sherlock won’t push the issue. He’ll do whatever John wants...but in this, Sherlock thinks he knows what to do.

He won’t tell John because Sherlock thinks he would deem the frankly staggering amount of research Sherlock has done over the years as Not Good...but Sherlock, in the few years he and John have been together, has devoted himself to learning all he can about Omegas. He’s researched the topic of gender, Omega male, extensively.

 _Very extensively_.

He’s read about everything. All sorts of different topics. If it deals with Omega males, Sherlock has read it- and if he hasn’t, then he will.

Physiology. Perceived emotional needs. Actual emotional needs. Stereotypes. Refutations of those stereotypes. The estrus cycle from puberty to cessation. The struggle for equal rights. Developmental stages of male Omegas. Popular shows among Omegas, both male and female. Heat suppressants and the male Omegas. Heat suppressants and the long-term prognosis on male Omegas with whom the drugs have negative effects. Popular toys for male Omega children. Popular sex toys for adult male Omegas (Sherlock had particularly enjoyed that bit of research). Bonding chemicals, estrus chemicals, and their impact on male Omegas both in and out of heat. Interviews with well-known Omegas, celebrities and public figures. Sexual tips designed for male Omegas. Parenting books which were aimed at Omegas, most of which were ridiculous. Sherlock had wasted his time with those.

Sherlock has read every scholarly work, advice column, website, and medical book, all in his quest to be the best, most intelligent, informed Alpha possible for John. He deserves no less. It’s the best Sherlock can do. He doesn't have a wide range of firsthand experience- John is the only Omega Sherlock has ever been with and the only person ever, full stop- and so there hasn’t been much experimentation beyond the normal scope. Besides, there are some things which Sherlock knows not to ask John about, not only because it would make John uncomfortable, but because those topics bring back ugly memories from John’s past. Memories Sherlock would do anything to keep John from reliving, especially if he can keep him from it.

Which brings Sherlock back to the cock in hand. John’s cock in particular. John’s lovely, small, exquisitely formed cock which fits perfectly in Sherlock’s hand and which Sherlock, from the bottom of his heart, absolutely _adores_. The same cock that, despite John’s obvious reservations, is still hard, pre-ejaculate slicking across Sherlock’s knuckles while he holds it motionless, waiting.

“Let me.” Sherlock wants to do this for John and prove that he’s a good mate. A good Alpha. That he can do things for John he isn’t even aware of. He wants to please his Omega. Desperately. Some of the compulsion can be attributed to his bond with John. Alphas are instinctually driven to provide for their Omegas in all the basest of ways...but the majority of the need building in Sherlock’s chest and vibrating beneath his ribs, has less to do with their bond and more to do with Sherlock himself wanting to please John. To pleasure him, hold him while he falls apart and comes, and make him happy that he agreed to be with Sherlock, happy he agreed to give Sherlock this, and give John no reason, ever, to regret it.

John’s giving Sherlock a gift for their bonding anniversary which he's never done before, and the unexpected gesture is sweet. Sherlock's delighted. He wants to give John something in return.

He doesn’t ask again, but he silently pleads with John to trust him. Just trust me. I’ve never given you reason to doubt me, John. Let me do this for you. Let me show you what it could be like. I won’t let you down. I promise I won’t. I promise.

After a long minute, John finally nods, giving Sherlock his unspoken assent. Choosing to trust him. Sherlock wants to crow with victory. Ecstatic, he grins, tightly hugging John to him and John leans back against Sherlock heavily, closing his eyes again.

“Thank you.”

John gives a somewhat choked laugh. “Got that the wrong way round, love. You’re the one with your hand wrapped round my dick…”

Sherlock buries his nose in the hair at the nape of John’s neck, breathing in the smell of his Omega. His Omega who loves him. Who moments ago, in an endearingly awkward, eloquently painful way, laid out his heart just to make sure that Sherlock knew how much he is wanted and loved. Sherlock knows how much of a sacrifice that was for John to say the things he said. Shocking because they were all feelings and emotions John pretends he doesn’t have- ever- but he did it anyway, admitted how he felt. All for Sherlock. Because he loves him.

“...think I’m supposed to be the one thanking you at this point.” John finishes dryly, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“Never.”

* * *

 

By the time Sherlock’s hand finally- fucking finally- speeds up, John is quivering, breaths ragged. His body is slicked with sweat and Sherlock assiduously licks at the beads of moisture dotting the sides of John’s face and neck, humming happily. John twitches, his cock so hard it hurts. It’s taking all of his self-control to wait. To not move and let Sherlock do this at his own pace.

God, he wants to come.

Sherlock noses his way through John’s hair, breathing him in, and that, the knowledge that his Alpha is scenting him, loving him, desiring him, would do anything for him, relaxes John further. Muscles unclench with a shivery groan and his cock spools a translucent line of pre-ejeculate onto the bed. John whines, shuddering, mouth open and panting.

“Oh...fuck...Sherlock…” There’s a prickle of shame over how he sounds. Pathetically begging his Alpha. Weak. Submitting. Behaving like a whiney Omega bi-

_Stop._

John strains his neck so he can kiss Sherlock, defiant. Fuck that. He lets Sherlock’s tongue twine around his own and shoves the shame away. Fuck that to hell and back. He lets Sherlock do it again, huffing in gasps of air through his nose and each inhale is spiced with the scent of Alpha. Desire. Sex. It floods through his system and feeds into the conflagration. Increases the need.

“Jesus...” John breathes, the curse immediately swallowed by Sherlock’s mouth. It feels as if Sherlock is trying to devour him from the mouth down, his kisses turning harder, hand a wonderful blur on John’s cock. John’s mouth falls open, cock hardening even more, perineum tingling. Undeterred, Sherlock bites at his lips, sucks the bottom one into his mouth and flicks his tongue over it just to make John whine. He can feel his orgasm getting closer and realizes he’s unconsciously pressing himself back against Sherlock, rubbing his arse against his cock as if he wants a knot. John’s natural wetness slicks between them and this close to his heat there’s an abundance of it. He can feel it running down his thighs and he moans, pushing back against Sherlock harder. He hears the Alpha’s breath hitch when his own cock glides smoothly against the skin of John’s lower back, hot and as hard as steel. John wants to come. He wants Sherlock to bite him. He needs to-

There’s a jolt of surprise when John realizes his head is already tilted to the side and offering himself to Sherlock. He doesn’t remember doing it. He doesn’t remember making the decision to move. With that realization should be the usual, accompanying fear. Fear that he’s losing himself in this. He’s giving up too much control. He’s-

Stop. Stop. Stop. His hands ball into fists against the wall and John manages to choke out- “Please, Sherlock...fuck, please!”

Sherlock’s teeth graze his neck. He needs it but John doesn't have any more breath to beg.

Close.

He’s so close.

“John...may I? Please?”

John shudders violently. Sherlock’s voice vibrates against his spine, the sensitive skin of his neck. It raises gooseflesh. His skin tightens almost painfully and John presses back against Sherlock harder, whimpering, hearing him moan as he does.

“John?” Sherlock doesn't stop, knowing John’s about to come, and John’s pre-ejaculate makes it ridiculously easy for Sherlock to stroke him as quickly as he can. “John? John? May I?”

John’s thighs shake, knees slipping on the sheets. He gives in and ruts himself into Sherlock's hand, rocking forward, snapping his hips. He needs to come. He needs it. He-

“God, yes, please...Sherlock…please-”

Sherlock groans, relieved. There’s no other warning. John doesn’t even have time to tense before-

His eyes flare wide and he cries out hoarsely as he comes. The pleasure is sharp and acute and John groans, high-pitched, over and over with each new pulse of his cock. Sherlock’s teeth are sunk in his neck and it feeds into a delicious loop, cycling back and forth through John’s body, running up and back down, electric and incredible, and then up again, resonating in scintillating frissons. And it’s not just the orgasm that holds John mesmerized. It’s the scent of his Alpha. The feeling of completeness suffusing him. The bone-deep knowledge that he’s wanted. The undeniable click of their bond reactivating. John feels loved. Accepted. Desired. Perfect. Owned. Any other trite fucking phrase Omegas are told they’re supposed to feel when their Alpha bites them.

John feels them all.

It’s fucking incandescent.

When it’s over, he's panting and everything around him is hazy. Indistinct. The room spins around and around and he feels vaguely disembodied, as if who and what he is is barely contained by his skin. Adrenaline contributes to the high somewhat, but John knows the way he feels is mostly because of the endorphins and hormones, serotonin and oxytocin, the potent cocktail of chemicals not only released from sex, but from his Alpha’s scent, his bite, his claiming. John’s high with it and it feels amazing.

As his orgasm fades and he tries to make his mind function in a capacity that doesn’t only involve giddily relishing what they've just done, John becomes aware that he’s sagging in Sherlock’s arms, the Alpha taking his full weight. The only thing keeping John from falling to the bed are Sherlock’s arms locked around his chest...and Sherlock’s teeth.

With a thrill of alarm, John realizes that Sherlock hasn’t let go yet. His teeth are still locked onto John’s neck, over his bond bite. Blood trickles down John’s chest. He can feel it but can’t see it. He can’t move his head at all because if he does it will pull and tear where Sherlock still has him. John shudders, a reaction to the bite, but also from worry about what will happen when Sherlock lets go. As soon as he does, John knows it will become very, very painful very quickly. He doesn’t feel it now. Everything is blissfully numb.

John hears himself moan weakly, cock bobbing between his thighs where it'd been abandoned when Sherlock had to hold John up. John can feel the flex and throb of it, in time to his heartbeat which is sluggish as he wades through his high, and he thinks about touching himself, muzzily thinking it would feel good- but when he tries to move his hand it feels too heavy. He can’t lift it. Too much effort.

“Sher...lock…” John doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice. It's too slow. Deep. More of a sigh than actual words. “Sher…”

Sherlock’s arms tighten around John and he flinches, ready-

When Sherlock eases the pressure on John’s neck, his teeth slipping free of his skin, John barely has time to cry out when he feels his cock wildly throb, throb, throb- and then he’s coming again. Untouched. Completely without warning. He shouts in surprise, the second orgasm isn't as strong as the first, but still feels fucking _fantastic_. John stares at the wall in front of him, wide-eyed, as his cock spurts out small stripes of ejaculate. The tingling, unexpected pleasure leaves him even more off-kilter than before, adding a kick of endorphins his system hadn’t expected. John fancies he can actually feel it as it surges through his system, sweeping him away with it entirely.

Afterward, he's too uncoordinated and Sherlock has to help John lay on the bed. His breaths are ragged and when his head hits the pillow, the first presages of pain start to make themselves known. Aching licks of fiery pain crawling up his neck and streaking down his shoulder. John doesn’t care. He really doesn’t. He’ll worry about it later.

He can’t open his eyes. It’s too monumental a task because his eyelids feel as if they weigh a ton. He knows Sherlock is nearby though. Not only because he knows Sherlock wouldn’t leave him, but also because John can _smell him_. Sherlock’s scent is overpowering, musky and redolent with wonderful undertones that, to John, hearken of mate. Mine. _Mineminemine._

John reaches out in search of him and Sherlock’s fingers immediately wrap around his wrist before he shifts closer, stretching alongside John and wrapping himself around him. Arms and legs clutch at him like an octopus, and John gives a pleased hum- then winces.

“Stop.” He laughs, giddy because of what they’ve just done, and delirious enough to not really mean it. Sherlock ignores John anyway. He licks at John’s bond bite again, his tongue wide and flat as he cleans the new mark. John sighs, lips twisted in a fond smile, keeping his eyes closed and letting the rhythm of Sherlock’s licks against his smarting flesh calm him, while his body spirals around and around...

* * *

 

John is nicely pleasured. Sated. Blinking slowly, his eyes very dazed. Breaths even and deep.

Sherlock purrs that he was able to do this for his Omega, that he was able to give him so much pleasure. His own cock throbs painfully with the knowledge- and at the sight of the new bond bite on John’s neck. He licks at it as a distraction, trembling with the need to touch himself and come.

It would be so easy. It would only take a few strokes. He's already wet from John's natural lubricant and that...remembering how wet John had been....the way he'd pressed against Sherlock....isn't helping him keep control. It wouldn't take much, and he would come.

Sherlock doesn’t.

He wants to. Quite badly.

But John asked him to wait.

He sighs, moving closer to John even though their bodies are already pressed as close as possible. John makes a pleased little sound and Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t know why John has done all that he has this morning, but Sherlock's enjoyed every second of it.

He’s aware that _something_ in their bond has been soothed by John and his actions and words this morning. Something which Sherlock hadn’t even know was fractured until it was finally mended. John must have been aware of it, though. It thrills Sherlock, down to his very core, that John took it upon himself to fix their bond. That he loved Sherlock, and their bond, enough to do that.

The knowledge does nothing to alleviate the clawing need gripping his body. His cock is literally painful and Sherlock leaves off licking John's neck and buries his face in his chest, whimpering. He's been scented by his mate, teased, and then marked his Omega in a very obvious way. He had almost orgasmed, just from that, biting John and listening to him moan-

Sherlock whimpers again and John’s eyes open, unfocused. He gives Sherlock a weak smile.

“Give me a minute, love...okay? Then I’ll...get you….sorted. Promise.”

“Take all the time you need.” He means it. He can wait forever for John.

“Still have...one more present for you…”

“I hope it’s an orgasm.” Sherlock can't help but joke and John’s lips quirk upward in a satisfied smile that makes Sherlock’s heart skip a beat.

“You have...no idea, love. No...fucking...idea.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling of their bedroom, mouth open in blissful shock as John swallows around his cock. It sends heat streaking down his thighs and curls his toes from the intense pleasure of it. His testicles are already drawn up against his body, tight. They've only just started and he had wanted to make this last as long as he could, loving the feel of John’s mouth on his cock, but when John’s tongue does something unexpected and wonderful against the head of his cock, Sherlock knows he can’t take anymore.

“John- you may want to...to stop now-!”

John rolls his head to the side, letting Sherlock’s cock slip free of his mouth- Sherlock groans at the loss- and he gazes up at him in faux innocence. His smile is sin itself. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

God, Sherlock loves him.

“Why would I want to stop? The goal of this is to make you come, love.”

“Yes, but…” Sherlock doesn’t know what he wants to say. It’s hard to think when John’s hand wraps around the base of his cock and starts stroking, hard and merciless. His spine bows and all possible thought flies out the window as his body races to orgasm.

“Where do you want to come?”

“Ngh?”

“Where do you want to come...on me?”

Sherlock gasps. His cock rapidly jerks in John’s hand, precome welling from the tip. He’s so close. Seconds away-

“Not my face.” John says quickly. “Not this time anyway.”

Sherlock’s glad John specified. He had been about to say just that.

It’s Sherlock’s new favorite obsession: coming on John’s face, over his lips, and then John letting Sherlock clean him up, licking away his own come with smooth, velvety strokes of his tongue. John laughed when Sherlock first did it, tipping his chin up where a line of semen had ran down his neck and said it felt like he was being bathed by a cat. An overly amorous, perverted cat. He hadn’t made Sherlock stop though.

Not the face.

Not the face.

Where else?

Where else?

_Where else?_

Sherlock can’t make his mind work. All he can think of is John’s scent. John’s body. John’s hands. The way John reacted when Sherlock bit him. When Sherlock looks, he can see the skin of John’s neck, red and inflamed, blood still oozing sluggishly from the mark and dripping over his collarbone. It will scar. John’s bond bite will be even more vivid. Everyone will know Sherlock is bonded to him. That Sherlock belongs to John. Out of everyone else, every other Alpha, John chose Sherlock.

His testicles contract, orgasm unspooling and Sherlock wildly grasps for the first thing that comes to mind-

“Your- your cock-”

“All right. Come on. Like this.”

John flops down on the bed beside him and Sherlock scrambles up, uncoordinated and feeling like a fool, but throwing a leg over John’s thighs. Then John’s hand is back at his cock- Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed- and his hips twitch into John’s hand as he moans, unable to look away from the sight of his gorgeous Omega, his gorgeous John, spread out on the bed and grinning up at him while he gives Sherlock pleasure.

* * *

 

It doesn’t take Sherlock long to come. John had known it wouldn’t. If he were being honest, he'd expected Sherlock to lose control and come long before now. Not that Sherlock always comes so quickly, but John knows he’s put his mate through a lot this morning. The scenting. Rutting against each other. Renewing his bond bite and grinding against Sherlock while he did it. John's amazed Sherlock lasted as long as he has.

Sherlock kneels over John’s body, thighs spread sluttishly wide as he roughly snaps his hips into John’s hand, and John stares avidly up at him, smug, watching as his Alpha falls apart. Sherlock’s body tightens as he reaches the edge, muscles locking, and he cries out hoarsely, hunching over John, when he finally comes.

Sherlock always makes the most beautiful noises when he comes and John loves hearing them. He strokes Sherlock through his orgasm, the motions of his hand tearing a lovely variety of sounds from him. All the while, Sherlock’s eyes are dark, watching as he paints thick, white stripes over John’s groin, over his cock, and lower stomach. John knows he loves doing this, loves marking him, and even when Sherlock’s orgasm is over, John doesn’t take his hands away. He rests them atop Sherlock’s shaking thighs, waiting.

He knows what Sherlock will do before he even does it. It’s what the Alpha always does when John allows him to come anywhere on his body.

Well. Except for his face.

And hadn’t _that_ been a fucking turn up?

John had never let Sherlock come on his face before. It was degrading. A typical, disgusting Alpha gesture used to demean Omegas and demonstrate an Alpha’s superiority over them. It’d been done to him a few times in the past and John had always hated it. But he’d decided to let Sherlock do it, just once, knowing it wouldn’t be like that because. Well. It was _Sherlock_. So he'd given it a go.

John had expected to hate it. Not sucking Sherlock off. John loved that bit. He loved making Sherlock gasp and shake and go out of his mind with pleasure. That had been fun. At the end, John had staunchly held himself still while Sherlock came on his face, his come shockingly warm against John’s skin, the smell of it pungent that close to his nose...and it was okay. Nothing terrible. John supposed they could do it more often if Sherlock wanted- then Sherlock leaned forward and started licking his own come from John’s face, moaning as he did it, enraptured.

John had been frozen in shock. It had been a big fucking surprise.

Even more surprising than John realizing that he didn’t hate it. Any of it.

John smiles at the memory- then winces, cock twitching from sensitivity as Sherlock rubs his come into John’s skin. Over John’s groin and cock. The tops of his thighs. Even the sensitive area between his cock and his hole. It’s an innately Alpha gesture. A primal marking. John relaxes, spreads his legs so Sherlock can get to any place he wants, and lets him carry on with it.

Sometimes, John doesn’t even think Sherlock is aware of what he’s doing until he’s already done it. Other times, John thinks the Alpha knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing, but he wants to get away with as much as John will allow.

Well. This morning?

It’s allowed.

“Love you.” John says, heart swelling at Sherlock’s answering, delighted grin. He swoops forward and kisses John, a bit messy and clumsy, but John can tell that Sherlock’s fucked out. Literally. He’s been scented by his Omega, renewed their bond bite, before getting, if John says so himself, a spectacular orgasm from said Omega.

John loves that he can do that to his Alpha. All of it.

As soon as Sherlock rolls to the side, collapsing to the bed, John gives him one more kiss and gets up. Sherlock tries to snag him to keep John in bed, but John’s determined. Sherlock settles for sighing, making a small moue, pouting as he watches John gathering up his clothes from the floor. He knows what John will do next. Sherlock always hates it when John washes off his scent, or his marking, but John always does because they’re not animals.

Plus, when semen dries? It itches and flakes.

So, yeah. John washes it off, each and every time Sherlock does it.

John, however, has already showered this morning.

It’s worth any amount of future uncomfortable itching to see Sherlock’s stunned face when John, with a devious smirk, steps into his pants and pulls them up and over where Sherlock’s semen is still covering his genitals. He's never seen Sherlock’s eyes get so big so fast and his breathing goes unsteady. John can hear it, labored, from across the room as red stains Sherlock’s chest and creeps up his neck into his cheeks.

It’s a bit embarrassing the way he’s staring at John. As if he's done something extraordinary...

“You don’t...mind, do you?” John asks, suddenly thinking he may be wrong about this. Maybe this isn’t what Sherlock wanted and John's been mistaken this whole time.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. His eyes go from John’s face, trailing down to fix on the front of his pants, blinking rapidly, before making the journey back to his face...then slowly back down again. He can’t seem to put the two together. What John has done obviously not computing in that big brain of his.

“Sherlock?” John fidgets with the waistband of his pants. “I... I can wash it off if you’d rather...I just thought you might...like it?”

Sherlock’s gaze makes the trip up from John’s groin to his face, flatteringly slow, and it takes him a while before he can speak, licking his lips and having to clear his throat a few times before the words will come out.

“No, I. That’s. Fine.” He manages, before his eyes helplessly stray to where his semen is hidden by the fabric of John’s pants, amazed. John grins, the indecision in his chest loosening.

“Great. Okay. Good. Because I don’t mind. This. As long as it’s...it’s just around the flat. Yeah? Not...not outside.” It’s as much as John is comfortable with. A small concession, but a major one. He doesn’t want to leave the flat smelling like Alpha semen and be out in public where everyone will know what his Alpha did to him that morning and make judgements. But here, in the privacy and safety of their flat, where they’ve created a space for themselves and where Sherlock has always, without fail, made John feel loved and accepted...he doesn’t mind.

He really doesn’t.

Sherlock nods. He can’t seem able to tear his eyes away from where his come is hidden beneath John’s clothes.

“And you’re going to…” He motions vaguely at John, hand shaking. “All...all day?”

“I don’t plan on prancing round the flat all day in my pants, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m going to get dressed.” John teases, giving Sherlock a wink. He knows exactly what Sherlock means but he can't help teasing him a bit.

John leaves Sherlock on the bed, ducking into the loo to wipe the blood from his neck and chest. The bite's really hurting now as the endorphins wear off, and John hisses as he cleans it, careful with how he turns his head. He’ll take some paracetamol after breakfast and that will help, but he knows it will be tender for at least a week. Maybe longer. Can’t be helped, he thinks ruefully, mentally shrugging.

Worth it, though.

John can hear Sherlock moving around in the bedroom, and just as he swipes off the last of the blood, he spies him hovering in the doorway to the loo, watching John with widely innocent eyes. John's heart twists at the look on Sherlock's face and he can see the questions Sherlock wants to ask but doesn’t. Afraid he’ll ask the wrong thing, or afraid of the answer or afraid he’ll upset John or…

John gives Sherlock a lopsided smile, tossing his flannel into the sink and pulls his Alpha toward him until they’re pressed close again, skin against skin. He rests his forehead against Sherlock’s, before claiming his lips in a soft kiss.

“Because I want to.” He whispers, in answer to everything unspoken. “And because I love you.”

* * *

 

The rest of the day passes much the way all their other days pass. Eating breakfast together. Reading the paper. Watching telly. Puttering around the flat. It’s really nothing special- except it _is_ because of what the day means. The significance that they’ve added to it. Mrs. Holmes picked Addi up earlier that morning, before John molested Sherlock in bed, and the flat is unnaturally quiet.

It’s been ages since it’s been just the two of them, and John has missed it. He thinks Sherlock has to.

Not that they don’t love their son.

Of course they fucking do and John will fight anyone who thinks otherwise...but it’s nice to be alone for a change. Make out on the sofa, slow kisses that don’t have to lead anywhere and know they won’t get interrupted by a crying baby. Laze around and talk without caring about the time. Make cup after cup of tea, not worrying about nutrition or sleep schedules, and then almost having sex in the kitchen when they wrestle each other over the last chocolate biscuit. Not having to hide so little eyes won't accidentally watch them groping each other. Just spending time together, living their life, enjoying their bond. Reaffirming their connection.

And Sherlock’s eyes are on John the whole time, dark and possessive and desiring and it’s barely nighttime before he’s crowding John against the wall, waylaying him as he comes from the kitchen after cleaning their dinner dishes, kissing his neck as he begs.

“Fuck me. Please?”

John’s breath catches at the plaintive tone and the sudden arousal at the request. His hands settle on Sherlock’s hips and the Alpha rocks against him, already hard.

“Please? We haven't...it’s been…”

“ _Ages_.” John breathes, because it has been. Months. Yes. Fuck yes. He’d love to fuck Sherlock. He can feel the tight, slick heat of Sherlock’s arse squeezing around his cock, Sherlock arching beneath him, moaning, rocking back into John’s thrusts, straining as he tries to come untouched, just from John’s cock. John moans and his cock thickens from the memory alone. “God, yes.”

“You. This morning. What you did.” Sherlock’s voice shakes, words bitten off, curt in quavering excitement. “Then all day I’ve been able to _smell_ you.” A convulsive shudder works down his spine and he pushes his hips against Jonn, unable to help himself. “I want you. I want you to….Please fuck me, John.”

“Yes.” John surges up onto his toes to kiss Sherlock before tugging him towards the bedroom.

“Wait. When is Addi-”

“Your mum’s not bringing him back until tomorrow. _Late_ afternoon.” John grins. “We’ve plenty of time.” He threads their fingers together and walks backward, pulling Sherlock along with him. “And Mrs. Hudson’s still at her sister’s. Which means you can be as loud...as...you...want, when I fuck you...as _hard_ as I can.”

John _sees_ Sherlock’s knees wobble and he laughs at him. His laughter abruptly cuts off, though, when Sherlock kisses him, pushing John quickly toward the bedroom, hands bossily steering John where he wants him and he lets himself be manhandled, knowing it won’t last long. Knowing in a few minutes he’ll have the Alpha beneath him, begging for his cock.

He thinks maybe Sherlock can ride him. That way, he can see John’s new bond bite- and John loves watching Sherlock work himself on his cock.

Or maybe, he thinks as Sherlock sheds his clothes, flinging them about the room without care before grabbing the lube and clambering onto the bed, he’ll save that for in the morning. They have time for both, after all.

“John...please…” Sherlock wiggles the lube at him impatiently and John throws the last of his own clothes away before crawling onto the bed and lowering himself over Sherlock, watching his eyes dilate at the show of dominance.

“Right here, love.”

Sherlock strains up to kiss him, thrusting against John, breathless and desperate. He abandons the lube in the sheets in favor of clutching at John, twining a leg around John's hips.

“Mm. Want my cock, sweetheart? Want me to stretch you out, make room for my cock? Fuck you good and hard?”

“John, yes!” Sherlock’s hips jump...then he pauses and John watches as a blush works its way across Sherlock’s cheeks.

"What? What is it?"

“Can I...before you...Can I...clean you?”

John frowns, bemused. “Clean me? I don’t…”

“Your cock. Where I...earlier.”

 _Jesus_.

“Filthy slut.” John growls, cock slamming into full, unbearable hardness. He bites at Sherlock’s lips, rolling over and tugging the Alpha onto him. “Fuck yes. But hurry. Want to eat your arse, make you nice and wet, before I fuck you. Yeah?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. “John. Please. _Stop_ _talking_.”

John grins, but does as Sherlock asked. He knows not to push him too far. As soon as he gets control of himself, Sherlock moves down John’s body, choosing not to linger, and John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he lowers his head to lick and suck at his skin.

“Oh, god...Sherlock...yes.” John squirms. He can smell Sherlock, his scent pervasive and heavy, but he can also smell _them_.

It covers the sheet he’s laying on. His own ejaculate from earlier. Sherlock’s come. Their combined scents. The particular yet clean smell of John’s natural lubricant. It smells marvelous and John thinks of taking Sherlock from behind, fucking the Alpha while he presses Sherlock’s face into the bed, letting him scent at their sheets. He knows Sherlock will love that. It will be easy for him to come on John’s cock with all that.

John moans, spreading his legs and pulling his legs up so he can bend his knees so Sherlock can clean his come from every inch of his skin.

He can’t fucking wait.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorelei_Lee accused me of orgasm denial at the end of last chapter and so this is for you, darling! I would never participate in orgasm denial unless it was fully negotiated first, and we all had a safeword ;)
> 
> I hope this satisfies.

Omegas don’t fuck Alphas. They just don’t. It’s not normal.

It’s considered unnatural.

Wrong.

Of course, there’s a prolific, highly profitable pornography industry catering specifically to this niche market: Alphas who want to get fucked, and the Omegas who think they are up to the task. It has a wide underground following of viewers who want to watch Alphas and their cocks be spit on, degraded, and humiliated, letting the Omegas see what it would be like on the other side of the equation, be the one who is dominant instead of dominated. They slap Alphas around, make them beg for their small cocks, or use strap-ons to further demean the Alpha, comparing the huge silicone toy to the Alpha’s hard and weeping cock before shoving it in their hole as hard as they can, making the Alpha jerk and moan and cry. Alpha cock and ball torture is a flourishing kink. On the rise. The #4 most searched term on the major porn sites last year alone. But that’s pornography.

Reality is different from fantasy, and in day-to-day life, Alphas don’t get fucked. It’s considered highly deviant if they do, if they roll over and take it up the arse from a small-dicked Omega without a knot or even balls. People look at them askance. There’s something _wrong_ with an Alpha if they let their Omega fuck them. They’re weak. Aren’t real Alphas. They’re not worth their knot if they put themselves in such a degrading position and allow someone who is totally beneath them, who goes into heat every three months, _wetting_ themselves while they lose all sense of dignity and pride, panting over a knot, to fuck them. How much weaker and pathetic can someone get? Alphas will fight anyone who so much as _suggests_ they like being fucked, violent and snarling as they assert their dominance and prove their worth- which isn’t to be held beneath an Omega and taken.

Which is why it always stuns John, fucking staggers him actually, how much Sherlock- an Alpha who has such an intimidating reputation for being inhuman, domineering, and ferocious, so much so that most officers at Scotland Yard won’t even _look_ at John- loves, absolutely loves, being fucked-

“John…please…”

-by his Omega. Sherlock’s always loved it, ever since that first night he awkwardly, blushing and flustered, asked John if he would please…if he wouldn’t mind….

“Oh…oh, god- yes!”

John hums, smirking as he rolls Sherlock’s balls together, sac warm and heavy in the palm of his hand, while he spears his tongue into Sherlock’s arse, straining to reach as far as he can inside the Alpha. Sherlock moans and begs again while John uses his tongue to fuck inside him, feeling the tight muscle loosen as he does. He’s careful when he gives the sensitive globes in his hand a squeeze, grinning- as much as he can with his tongue shoved in Sherlock’s arse- when Sherlock gives a strangled cry and pushes his arse back against John’s face, trying to take as much of his tongue as he can, beautifully whorish as he offers himself to be taken.

John sucks at Sherlock’s loosened rim, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses along his intergluteal cleft and Sherlock cries out again. He rocks backward, wanting more, the teasing stimulation not enough. John hasn’t been at this long- barely more than a few minutes- but it’s been months and months since they’ve done this and they’re both wound up from the thought alone. Sherlock may be trembling and wrecked, on his hands and knees, whining as John licks around his already stretched rim, tongue pointed and tantalizing, but John is almost just as far gone. He hasn’t touched his cock, not once, since Sherlock finished cleaning him with slow, lingering licks, afraid that if he does, he’ll come before they even start.

John gives Sherlock’s balls another squeeze and the Alpha sobs, arms shaking where he holds himself up. His hole is already wet, gleaming with John’s saliva. When John replaces his tongue with two fingers, they easily slide inside. Barely any resistance.

“Yes-yes, please!” Sherlock gasps and John bites his lip, suppressing his own moan. The grip of Sherlock’s arse around his fingers, fluttering as Sherlock humps back against him, is pure torture. Because John knows how _good_ Sherlock’s arse is going to feel wrapped around his cock, warm, wet heat squeezing at him as he fucks into him. He can imagine it, the way Sherlock will beg, so responsive, John’s orgasm mounting sharply as Sherlock’s arse tightens around him, clenching like a vise as the Alpha nears orgasm-

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock.” John breathes, in complete reverence, as Sherlock undulates his body, rolling his hips, fucking himself on John’s fingers where he’s still pinioned. John runs his free hand up Sherlock’s back, up, up, up his spine, Sherlock arching into the contact with a moan, before reversing course and dragging his nails down the sensitive flesh, scoring the pale skin all the way from Sherlock’s neck to his buttocks. Vivid red marks appear almost instantly, four lines of burning, obvious ownership.

John does it again, scratching down Sherlock’s side, listening to him sob excitedly. He’s always liked a little pain, a show of John’s dominance, when they do this. Tonight is no exception.

“John! John- _yes_! Yes, please-!” Sherlock’s hips pump forward, rutting his cock against the air. Precome drips from the slit, trickling down his shaft to join the spreading puddle already under him. “Please…oh, _please_ …”

John corkscrews his fingers, scissoring them, trying to stretch Sherlock as much as he can because while he knows that his cock is nowhere near as big as Sherlock’s, the Alpha’s body still isn’t used to being fucked on the regular. John may want to fuck Sherlock so much at the moment he can’t even see straight, but he doesn’t want to hurt him. Not ever. Sherlock drops his head and pushes back on John’s fingers, trying to make them go deeper, and John lets him, his fingers sinking even further into Sherlock’s arse, all the way to the third knuckle.

A quick twist and the pads of his fingers skim against Sherlock’s prostate. Repeatedly. In time to the motions of Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock goes _wild_.

“ _John_ -yes! Oh, _yes_! Please, yes, please, please!” Sherlock’s movements become agitated, working himself faster, and it’s so stunningly erotic to watch Sherlock, all pale skin and lean muscles, the most gorgeous Alpha (the most gorgeous person) John has ever seen twisting and straining for his pleasure, that John pays a brief farewell to the idea of fucking Sherlock and just lets him carry on with it. Wanting to see Sherlock come. Like this. Just like this.

John moans, touching himself while he watches, powerless to the urgent demands of his own cock. This is fine, John decides, stroking himself quickly. More than fine. Watching Sherlock carrying on like this is the single hottest thing John’s ever seen and even if he doesn’t get to fuck Sherlock, John doesn’t mind having a damn good orgasm from this alone.

Sherlock suddenly cries out. John feels his muscles clamp down on his fingers, getting closer. Nearing orgasm.

“Yes, Sherlock. Come on.” John encourages huskily, throat constricted from growing arousal, rocking into his own hand faster. His wrist is cramping from holding it in position so long as Sherlock uses his fingers to get off. He will have a hell of a time with it tomorrow. But John doesn’t care. “Fuck. Wanna see you come, Sherlock- Come on. Let me see it. That’s it…come on, love…“

“Oh…oh, oh, oh…J- no! No, _no_!” Sherlock unexpectedly jerks forward, John’s fingers sliding from his arse, and Sherlock’s hand fumbles beneath himself to grasp at his cock. John thinks Sherlock’s finally given in, touching himself- he can’t always come from John’s fingers or cock alone- but when John looks, he notices Sherlock’s arm isn’t moving. In fact, Sherlock’s entire body is motionless, held rigidly, all his muscles locked while he trembles violently.

“Sherlock…?” Is something wrong? Has John hurt him? John’s first thought is that his nails may have scratched Sherlock, inside- they were both being so rough and forceful…but a quick glance proves his nails are short. Innocuous. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s only reply is a garbled sound which could be John’s name. It’s hard to tell, though.

Worried, John moves to the side, pushing Sherlock’s sweaty hair back from his face, hands careful and sure.

“Sherlock? What is it? What…ohhh, Jesus...” John’s breath sighs out in a delighted moan and his cock, which had started to soften from concern, hardens again in a swift rush. Sherlock’s eyes are tightly closed, face set in grim determination as he pants anxiously. Between his thighs, his cock is hard, flushed a deep, deep red. One of his hands is wrapped around the base of it, clamped tightly around his cock, gripping in a desperate attempt to keep himself from coming.

“Oh, god. Sherlock. Is…are you…”

“I want. You to. Fuck me.” Sherlock bites out, every syllable quivering with tension and need. “I need it. John. After…after what you…did today…” He breaks off, whimpering, forehead creasing. John winces as Sherlock’s grip tightens around his cock. It’s starting to look painful. “I n-need it. John. Need you to. Fuck me. Please?”

Yes. God, yes. Whenever you want, love, just say the word and me and my cock are there.

“All right. Fuck, that’s…yeah. All right. Of course. I want to. Sherlock. God. I just thought maybe…you seemed to like what we were doing, is all.”

“Of course I liked it.” Sherlock peels his eyes open, giving John an incredulous look, as if John has said something incredibly moronic. Even in such a sexually charged moment, both of them hard and desperate, John is still equal parts angry and aroused, wants to slap that look off Sherlock’s face…or kiss it away. He licks his lips. He likes that last option better.

“I was enjoying it. I always love what we do, John. What you do to me. But. I…need this. I just do. I need you to fuck me. Right now. Please?”

* * *

 

Sherlock rocks forward, body jolting with every deep, hard, perfect thrust from John as he drives his cock into Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock’s knees slip on the bedding, slick with sweat, and he clutches at the headboard to keep himself from falling flat on his face. John’s hands are at Sherlock’s hips, holding him in the perfect position for him to be mounted and fucked by his Omega. Taken.

Used.

Sherlock’s mouth falls open in a soundless scream as John curses, hips speeding up. The sound of his skin slapping wetly against Sherlock’s arse, quick and fast and relentless, is loud. Filthy. Very lewd.

Sherlock bites his lip to keep the ridiculous sounds John’s greedy shoves inside his body are provoking, trying to keep them from spilling out of his mouth- before he remembers in a sudden flash. His eyes flare wide at the realization. Excitement and relief blossom in the pit of his stomach. They’re alone. It’s just himself and John in the flat. In the entire building. Sherlock can be as loud as he wants. Cry out. Yell. Shout the bedroom down as his body stretches, past the point he thinks he is capable of, as it eagerly makes room for John’s cock.

“Ohhh, god- John, yes!” Sherlock groans, letting himself go, voice grating out in such a low register that it almost hurts. He gives himself up to it, ramming himself back on John’s cock with wild abandon. It feels so good. Sinfully incredible.

It’s been so long since they’ve had sex like this. Free of all restraints. Uninhibited. Unconstrained.

Because there’s always either Mrs. Hudson downstairs (not like that’s ever stopped them before, but they do try and be courteous) or a baby in the next room. They are never alone.

Before Addi’s birth, Sherlock had read that the time of greatest unhappiness and dissatisfaction in a bond was during the first few years of a baby’s life, as the infant was constantly dependent on the Omega for everything, from sustenance to comfort and all things in-between. Omegas were therefore so exhausted, tired and drained from constant childcare duties, that they were resentful of their Alphas and uninterested in sexual relations or other forms of intimacy.

That, Sherlock had decided, would not be what happened to himself and John. Or their bond. Not if he could do anything to prevent it.

Besides, Sherlock didn’t understand why most Alphas didn’t want to take care of their own children, shunting them off onto the Omega to rear and only rarely interacting with them. The Alpha had been a part of their child’s conception and development. Doting on their Omega and scenting their pregnant belly with reverence and care. That shouldn’t change once the child was outside the womb. The child was the Alpha’s just as much as the Omega’s. Why would they want nothing to do with it?

When Addi was born, Sherlock had eagerly taken on as much responsibility as he could. Scared and unsure, ignorant about most infant-related duties except what he had read about online, he had still tried his best. The compulsion to do so had been too strong to resist. Addi was _his_. He smelled like his. Addi’s sweet, powdery baby scent called to Sherlock in a primal, instinctual way which had been purely visceral. A gut reaction.

Addison was _his_.

(And John’s. Of course.)

But Addison _belonged_ to Sherlock. He had to take care of him.

The task of caring for Addi had been shared between the two of them. Gladly. At first, John had been surprised, in a rather insulting way, at Sherlock’s alacrity in being involved with Addi’s care. Surprised…but not displeased, which had eventually morphed into fond exasperation as he repeatedly handed Addi back to Sherlock, complaining he hadn’t got to hold their baby all day and that Sherlock was being too greedy with their boy. Sherlock couldn't help it, and John never begrudged him his attachment.

Sherlock thinks his and John’s bond is stronger for it. Their happiness with each other intact. That did not mean, however, that their sex life had been thus untouched.

There just never seems to be time. He and John snatch brief interludes whenever they can, copulating as quickly and quietly as possible. When Mrs. Hudson takes Addi downstairs to play (rushing, knowing their time is limited and in no way guaranteed). When Mummy takes her grandson on an outing (two hours, at the most, not nearly enough time for all that Sherlock has planned). When Addi naps. Those are the times which are most agonizing: not undressing but only pushing their jeans and pants down to mid-thigh, baring the important bits, so Sherlock can fuck John in measured, deliberate thrusts. He’s not able to thrust as deeply as he wants without making a racket which could wake Addi, his skin prickling with sweat as he tries to make the sex pleasurable but still hurry himself along, hand tight over John’s mouth to muffle his groans as the Omega comes with a silent clench and shudder, the strict restraint enough to bring tears to Sherlock’s eyes.

This is wonderful.

This is fantastic.

This is-

“Goddammit.” John buries himself inside Sherlock, freezing, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s hips so hard it hurts. Sherlock relishes the pain. He hopes there will be bruises he can poke at the next day. Visible marks of John’s ownership. John buries his face in Sherlock’s back, taking deep, shaky breaths. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Sherlock can feel John’s cock pulsing rapidly inside him with denial as John claws his way back from the brink of orgasm. John is hanging on by a thread. A very, very thin thread. The knowledge turns Sherlock on even more. He reaches beneath himself and gives his cock a few quick tugs, pleasure surging through him.

“Oh, god.” John’s voice is high and breathy as he rotates his hips, unable to help himself, grinding his cock into Sherlock hard enough that he sees stars. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I…d-don’t think I can…” He sounds ashamed, which Sherlock thinks is ridiculous. John should know there’s nothing to be ashamed about. His stuttered confession is obvious proof of the overwhelming, sensual effect Sherlock has on his mate. Evidence of how much John wants him. Sherlock purrs with the knowledge.

“Please, John.” Sherlock jerks his cock harshly, arse tightening around John until he hears the Omega moan, despairing. “Please. I’m so close. Please, just- more. A little more.”

“Oh, god.” John gives a quivering thrust, fingers still gripping Sherlock tightly. This time, his thrusts are slower, obviously trying to make this last as long as possible. The deliberate, dragging stretch of his cock as it pushes inside Sherlock letting him feel every inch.

“ _Yes_ …” Sherlock’s eyes slip closed and he loses himself in the pleasure, John raking his nails down Sherlock’s back again and the sound that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth doesn’t even sound human.

“Fuck-fuck…I can’t…!” John says wildly, sounding panicked, and Sherlock shouts in surprise when he unexpectedly grasps at his hair, knotting in Sherlock’s curls. For a second, Sherlock thinks John will pull his head back, as he’s done before, and bite him. Give Sherlock a matching scar on his neck like the one he gave John earlier. Sherlock’s mouth falls open, already prepared to beg for it because yes. Yes, John. That. I want that.

But that isn’t what John does.

Instead, he domineeringly shoves Sherlock’s face onto the bed, pressing it harshly against the sheets, mashing Sherlock’s nose somewhat in the process. Sherlock inhales reflexively, startled- and then groans, long and low, realizing what John is about.

It’s _them_.

Their scent.

It covers the sheets, saturating them.

“Oh. Oh, oh, oh, oh…!” Sherlock moans with every thrust, abandoning his cock in favor of grabbing fistfuls of sheet and pressing them to his face, inhaling greedily at the combined scents. Musk and come. Ejaculate and blood. Sweat and lubricant. Musk and pheromones. John’s wonderful, wonderful scent, which harkens of home and love, safety and danger. All at once. It’s aromatic, tangled with Sherlock’s darker smell, Alpha, inherently possessive, weaved so closely together that it’s impossible to separate the two. Sherlock huffs at the scent, high with it, closing his eyes and burying his nose as deeply as he can into the cloth.

“Sherlock… _god_ , yes…” John’s hand is still in his hair, forcing Sherlock to keep scenting the bed- as if Sherlock wants to stop- and he can distantly hear himself making very embarrassing noises, thankfully muffled somewhat in the sheets, but in time to John’s slow, stuttering thrusts. Sherlock humps his own cock in the air, shuddering, needy.

“Sherlock, oh god- I’m gonna come. Fuck- sorry, I can’t...gonna…I’m gonna come-“

Yes.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Sherlock wants John to come inside him. He wants to be dripping with John’s ejaculate. He won’t bathe. Not until morning, and even then only if John insists. He’ll roll in it, in the scent, stain their sheets even more. Sleep in the redolent bouquet of scent all night long and every time he wakes up he’ll smell them.

Please. Oh, please. Yes. That. He wants that.

Groaning, Sherlock humps faster, his cock bobbing against nothing, testicles drawn up tight, agonizingly close but it’s still not enough.

“John-please!” He wails, hips twitching forward frantically and suddenly John’s hand is there- Sherlock hadn’t even felt him remove it from his hair. It’s warm and wet and merciful as it wraps around Sherlock’s erection and it only takes a few seconds before he’s coming, biting at the sheets as he adds his semen to the already soiled bedding. Behind him, John gives a relieved groan and thrusts a handful more times, ragged and irregular, before stiffening, coming with a small shout, hand inadvertently gripping at Sherlock’s cock, making him moan and writhe and hump forward a few more times, seating John’s cock deeper.

Sherlock’s arms are unsteady and as soon as John pulls out with a hiss, Sherlock lets himself collapse to the bed with a moan, uncaring that he’s laying in his own semen. John chuckles warmly, petting at Sherlock’s hair as he arranges himself beside him. It’s dark and he can’t see, but Sherlock runs his nose up John’s neck- _scentscentscentmineminemine_ \- until he finds his lips, claiming them in a kiss.

“Amazing.”

John grimaces. “Sorry, I didn’t-“

“John. It was amazing.” Sherlock says firmly. How can John have doubts?

He snuffles closer to John, pressing his face against John’s neck so he can inhale his scent, humming happily when John’s arm drapes around his waist, silently giving permission. He feels John’s nose run through his hair, scenting at the top of his head, and goes even more boneless against him.

It’s as Sherlock’s trying to sleep, wanting to drift off wrapped around John with John’s scent filling his lungs after just being shagged senseless, that Sherlock realizes what is wrong. The niggling he’s felt all day shoving it’s way to the fore…

“John?”

John grunts, already half asleep. “Mm?”

Sherlock hesitates, then- “I miss Addison.”

Sherlock immediately wishes he’d kept his confession to himself when John stiffens, clearly taking offense. Belatedly, Sherlock realizes his mistake. John planned this entire lovely day just for him, just for Sherlock, and now he’s thrown all of John’s hard work and love and affection back in his face, complaining like an egotistical arsehole. Sherlock rushes to explain, falling over his words, stuttering.

“Not…not that I haven’t loved today, John. I- I have. Obviously. I’ve- I’ve loved every moment of- of spending time with you and…and. I’ve enjoyed everything you’ve planned. I didn’t mean…”

John stops Sherlock’s agitated rambling with a kiss, catching his lips mid-apology. “Sherlock. It’s all right.”

“No. It’s not all right. I’ve loved spending this time with you, John. I’ve loved celebrating our bonding-”

“I know you have. I’ve loved it too. But no. It’s all right because…I miss Addi, too.” John admits. “A lot, actually. I have all day.”

Sherlock’s heart swells at John’s admission, a happy, contented smile breaking over his face as John props himself up on an elbow.

“Tell you what. Why don’t we go and pick Addi up tomorrow morning from your mum? We’ll stop for breakfast on the way back, then maybe go by the park?”

Sherlock finds John’s hand in the bed and threads their fingers together, bringing their joined hands up to his chest as his heart starts to beat faster. He loves this man. How is it possible that John knows exactly what Sherlock wanted? That sounds lovely.

“Yes, John.”

“And when we get home….When we get home…we’ll all pile up together on the sofa and…and just…scent?”

“John…” Yes. Sherlock wants that so badly he aches with it. To take his Omega and their child and nestle together, scenting each other, showing their love in such a physical, obvious way as they hug and cuddle… It reminds Sherlock of his own childhood, when they would all celebrate his parent’s bonding anniversary. A whole day spent with his family. Groups scentings that were proof Sherlock was loved and wanted and treasured by his parents, by his brother. For those brief times, all had been right in Sherlock’s world.

Sherlock knows John isn’t aware of that tradition- how could he?- but he’s unknowingly offering Sherlock everything he’s ever wanted from their bond. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, how to express the enormity of all that he feels. “John…”

“Listen. Remember last year, Sherlock? What I said to you?”

John has said a lot of things to Sherlock. He has no idea to which John is referring.

“After the ultrasound. In our bedroom.” John clarifies, correctly interpreting Sherlock’s silence. “When I came out starkers and said-“

Sudden realization breaks over Sherlock, as stunning as a hit to the solar plexus. “That you’d try for me.”

“Yeah. That. I…I meant it, Sherlock. It wasn’t just something I said in the moment or…something…I meant it. I meant every word of what I said. I wanted to try for you. I still want to try for you. And I told you back then that I’d get it wrong, over and over, and I’ve done that…I’ve done that a lot, actually…but I also said I would always keep trying.” John grips Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock grips back just as tightly, unable to speak. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you.” Sherlock manages, throat entirely closing up when John kisses their joined hands and they spend a few moments in silent contemplation, enjoying the company and proximity and scent of the other, before John shakes himself. “

So? Tomorrow? Pick up Addi and then all the rest?”

Sherlock smiles, knows John can’t see it in the dark, and presses their lips together so John can _feel_ Sherlock’s happiness. “That sounds lovely, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter is already written and will be posted (hopefully) tomorrow night.


End file.
